"That guy is an asshole," Luke says, dodging my question. "Not someone who needs to be anywhere near you."
I raise my eyebrows, leaning forward to hiss my response through gritted teeth. "You say that like you have some kind of claim over me. And in case you were wondering, you most definitely do not have a claim on me. Not after the way you – you know what? I’m not having this conversation, here of all places.”
“Autumn, you need to listen to me.”
It hits me. I was stupid to not realize it before, na?ve to think that he was somehow trying to look out for me by sending me a new foreman for the orchard, trying to make up for the fact that he was being a total jerk. My hands shaking, I reach into my purse to pull out cash and place it on the table. “The foreman -- the one you sent. He’s spying on me, isn’t he?” I ask, my voice trembling. “You… I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but you’re a psycho.”
Pulling my purse over my shoulder, I don’t look at him, or anyone else in the restaurant, even though I can feel their eyes on me. I storm out the front door, half-holding my breath as I leave, not wanting to deal with Edwards either. But he's already gone, his car and its flat tires still there.
My head is spinning as I open the car door.
“Autumn,” Luke yells, grabbing me by the wrist and turning me around. “Listen to me. I was trying to protect you. I did it the wrong way, but I was trying to keep you safe.”
I shake off his hand. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, Luke, but I'm not. And I'm going home."
"Autumn, damn it." He doesn't let go of my wrist, keeps his hand wrapped around it like he has a right to touch me. It makes me instantly angry. And what makes me angrier is the fact that when he touches me, heat rushes through me the same way it did before. I’m attracted to him, and I hate myself for it. In my head, I know he’s bad for me – someone who texts me to break up with me, then sends someone to replace him as foreman to spy on me, then shows up at a restaurant and slashes some guy’s tires – this guy is not a good person.
And I’m clearly not a good judge of character.
And despite whatever fucked up attraction my body might have toward him, I’m a mom. I have to be a good judge of character. For Olivia.
I wrench my wrist from his grasp and try not to notice the fact that he looks at me the same way he did before, with lust in his eyes. And I try to ignore the desire that courses through my body. “Back the fuck away from me right now, Luke,” I warn him, “or I will scream.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off me, but he steps back. “Autumn, damn it, I’m not a psychopath,” he says. “And I can explain about –”
But I’m not listening. “I don’t want to hear another word," I tell him, opening the car door and slipping inside. I lock the doors, half-afraid he’s going to keep me from leaving, but he doesn’t. Instead, I pull away and try not to look at him in the rearview mirror when I leave.
32
Luke
The knock on the door jolts me awake, but even if it didn’t, Lucy is growling at the bedroom door, her hackles raised the way she only rarely gets. I’m startled awake, not even the least bit groggy after a sleepless night wracked with dreams about her.
I’ve never dreamt about a girl before. Hell, I've rarely cared about anything enough to have nightmares about it – the only nightmares I've had have been about my brothers.
And now, Autumn and Olivia.
I peer out the window at the police cruiser in the driveway and Jed Easton standing on the step in front of the camper. I knew this visit would be coming, but hell if I want to deal with Jed Easton right now.
On the way to the front door, I grab my firearm, sliding it into the back waistband of my jeans before I slip on my jacket – just in case Jed gets the idea that shooting me is a good way of dealing with me.
Lucy doesn’t calm down when I pull the door open, and I have to tell her twice to go chase squirrels to keep her from attacking the sheriff.
“Sheriff Easton. Whatever brings you out here this fine morning?”
“Had a report of a disturbance at the Quarter Moon Restaurant last night,” he says, looking at me from behind mirrored sunglasses. “An altercation with Randall Edwards. His tires were slashed. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now, would you?”
“Now, I don’t think I do,” I say. I lean against the doorframe casually. If he can play this bullshit dance-around-the-subject-and-lie-through-his-teeth game, so can I. “In fact, I saw a couple of kids running away from the car, which is why I went inside the restaurant to let him know. Out of courtesy.”
“You’re a regular Good Samaritan, aren’t you, Saint?” he says.